Has anyone asked you to write a perfect story? Many writers may seek it… Critics may accept nothing less than it… and others can only afford to dream of it. Gratingly, time and time and again, it is those who zealously sought to realize such an image that turns to receive the shorter end of it. It’s neither irony nor destiny that those who mind little of such a story ends up making the next best thing closer to it than those who were actually trying. The tragedy of the idealist is his vision of the end… the end that came to him without a blue print to how it came to be. As such he would envision yet stumble in his eagerness to make… centralized to conceive its actuality and mold it through his own hands. His fault is not in his intentions but rather in his strife to make nothing less than it. Life is progress. Though progress may hardly be visible to all, it will be as it is. The ignorance of it is alienating and the rejection of it is fatal… especially to those with great ideals. Alas, thus is why the idealist falls short for in progress he rejoice not… and to its presence he all so rejects… ingrained, he would accept nothing less than the ideal… the process, he has abandoned… the innumerable changes that he has realized, rather than to serve his motivation, has been made as similar to the memories that cements his failures. And so he parts from his days… so much bitter from when he started.
Posted on: Fri, 11 Jul 2014 02:05:20 +0000
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